Chapter 3 Makeshift Date
“Oh wow.” Jordyn beams, not even attempting to conceal her amusement. “When did you two meet?”
“Today.” Reed smiles broadly. “We hit it off.”
“What’s happening,” I mumble.
“Do you have a job?” Micah asks across the table in the most nonthreatening, happy-go-lucky voice of all time.
Reed nods. “I do.”
“Are you in the military?” Jordyn asks.
He chuckles. “I’m not.”
“Where are you from?” Micah asks.
“Secaucus! Went to high school with Willem.”
“Ah, a Jersey boy, how cute,” Jordyn coos. “Micah’s a Jersey guy.”
“Really, where from?” Reed asks eagerly.
“Point Pleasant!” Micah smiles.
My lips have shrunk into a ball. What do I do with this? Also, what is his job? Stay on task, Micah.
“Ah nice! Jersey Mike’s!” Reed cheers.
“Hell yeah, Jersey Mike’s!” Micah cheers back.
“So what do you do, Reed?” Jordyn asks. Thank you, Jordyn.
“Among other things, I run a podcast production company with my brother.”
Color me intrigued.
Jordyn’s brows fly up. “Podcasts, huh? Interesting.”
“Name some that you produce,” Micah prompts.
Reed’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Have you heard of Attached at the Hip?”
I’ve heard of that. I quickly chew the heap of Caesar salad I just stuffed into my mouth. That’s the new reality show that’s like Survivor meets dating. It’s on my to-watch list. Jordyn’s been—
Jordyn slams a hand down on the table, rattling our plates. “Yes! I’m obsessed with it! I can’t wait for season two!”
He nods. “Yeah, we produce the official weekly deep-dive recap podcast. They’re casting the second season right now.”
“You produce the official AATH pod with Jamie and Dawn?” she screeches.
“Dude, we listen to that podcast.” Micah smiles. “It’s hilarious. Rikki, you gotta watch that show.”
I stab another crouton. So he’s a writer of books (maybe, no proof yet) and runs what might be a successful podcast production company. He sounds pretty employed (30 percent of the men I come across on Hinge are “funemployed”).
“You know what Rikki does, right?” Jordyn prods.
I shake my head. “Oh, let’s not—”
“No, actually, we hadn’t gotten there yet,” Reed clarifies.
“She’s a columnist,” Micah volunteers. “For The New York Minute!”
Reed’s faint brows rise as his attention slides back to me. “The New York Minute? Damn.”
“She’s the columnist for Love Today at The New York Minute!” Jordyn corrects.
“Jordyn.” I shoot her a death glare.
Micah nods. “She used to be a staff book reviewer, but she was promoted last year—”
“Okay! That’s enough,” I warn.
“And she’s an LMFT,” Jordyn continues, completely ignoring me.
Fear gurgles up my throat like acid reflux. “Seriously?”
“And”—Micah keeps talking—“she runs a greeting card shop on Etsy—”
“Micah!” I nervously glance over at Reed.
I’m surprised to find him happily soaking this all in like none of it has horrified him.
He’s grinning like pretending to be my wedding date is his new favorite pastime.
Maybe he doesn’t know what LMFT stands for.
I find it’s never great to lead with “Hi, I’m Rikki, licensed relationship therapist” either.
“And she runs our biweekly book club: Which Witch United!”
“Jordyn,” I protest. “Please.” Dear god.
“PlusshecohostsTheMinute’sLoveTodaypodcast—” She spits the words at light speed just as the DJ’s voice comes over the mic.
“All right, crew!” he booms. “Time to get things moving again! Come out onto the dance floor for this one if you know it.”
“And that’s my cue.” I stand and push back my chair, itching to escape this info dump about my life as soon as humanly possible. I shoot Reed an apologetic look. “I think I’m gonna take a lap—”
The opening beat of “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King” blares from the speakers, cutting me off.
Jordyn gasps (she loves this song) and lunges for the dance floor.
Micah’s fork clangs onto his plate as he follows her out.
The strangers at our table abandon ship as well, scurrying away to scream-sing with the mob of guests converging around the DJ.
A lot of Babe’s friends are Disney enthusiasts.
Reed’s eyes slide up to mine. “I like your friends.”
I suck in a slow breath and nod. “They’re more like family. Jordyn and I grew up together, went to college together. We’ve been inseparable since kindergarten.”
“Wow, and Micah?”
“Yeah, he came out of the woodwork during our senior year of college. He’s pretty great too.”
He tips his head in the direction I was about to flee. “You want to take that lap?”
A healthy dose of skepticism snakes through me as I trail Reed to the edge of the gilded event room. I guess he’s still interested post job reveal. Brave.
The dance floor’s in full swing. Lights soar across the hardwood.
A spotlight floats around, landing periodically in a bright circle around the bride, and a disco ball sends scattered diamonds over the guests.
The rest of the room is fairly dark. Small candles scatter the tables, and tiny colored bulbs sit in sconces along the walls.
I like it. The darkness offers the illusion of privacy.
The two of us come to a stop next to the closed double doors that lead back out to the lobby of this New Jersey country club.
Reed’s expression renders back to serious handsome-man war-hero chic as he juts out the crook of his elbow. “A promenade?”
Wow, he knows the word promenade. I cut him an amused look and slip my arm through his.
“You’re confident,” I say flatly as we start toward the back of the room. This man just sat his ass down at our table and pronounced himself my date.
“I think you like it,” he says immediately.
A grin snaps onto my face.
“So you write the Love Today column for The New York Minute?” he asks. “And you started there as a book critic, and you’re a therapist?”
Damn, he does know what LMFT means.
I cut my eyes to his. “So you’re a podcast producer and an author?”
He dips his head to the right. “I haven’t published a book in seven years, so it’s a loose interpretation of the word author.”
The statement isn’t funny, but the irreverent way he delivers it is. “Why haven’t you published a book in seven years?”
Reed purses his lips. “So you write the Love Today column for The New York Minute?”
I shoot him a delighted grin. I’ve recently encountered way too many dudes who can barely hold a conversation, let alone play in one. “That Love Today stuff is top secret info, Reed. My friends were not authorized to release that data, and later I will have to kill them.”
He laughs. It’s a hearty rumble that sends warmth skidding across my collarbone.
I smile harder. “I write under a pen name for a reason—no one wants to date the girl who does the Love Today column. The Love Today podcast is a totally different beast. We bring on people in various relationship situations and interview them about their story, but the column can get personal. So . . .” I throw my hand up and let it fall.
“So, am I gonna read about this evening in the Sunday paper?”
“Pfft, you don’t get the fucking paper.”
The edge of his mouth lifts. “No, Rikki, but I do have the internet.”
I huff a nervous laugh. “No, Reed, I don’t post journal entries of my personal life as weekly column pieces in The Minute. But—”
“But—” he repeats enthusiastically.
Another laugh huffs out of me. “Every so often my personal life will inspire a piece, and then sometimes bits of my life become vaguely public, but only in the surface-level sense. No one gets named. It’s all shrouded in mystery and—” I glance over to gauge his reaction.
“Am I freaking you out? You don’t have to worry, I’m not going to write about this”—I do air quotes—“date in my column this week.”
Another hearty rumble from his chest. “You’re not freaking me out. I’m an”—he throws up air quotes—“author.”
My head kicks forward in a laugh.
“I know how writing works,” he continues. “Your life slips into your work. It’s why your work works. It’s why writing works. It’s part of the job. It’s amazing that you have a weekly column for The Minute.”
Wow. That’s a new reaction.
I’m beaming like he’s presented me with a Pulitzer. I attempt to recalibrate my face. “Well, don’t tell anyone, Reed.”
“If word gets out, you have full permission to murder me.”
Damnit, I’m beaming again. “No one’s ever given me that before.”
“Please don’t use it.”
Laughter fizzles out of me as we reach the back of the hall.
There’s a long table against the wall, covered in wedding doodads, a guest book, and more framed pictures of the happy couple over the years.
A large Mickey-shaped poster of their engagement photo in front of the Buzz Lightyear ride in Orlando sits on an easel, along with various colored markers for us to sign it with.
Reed picks up a black Sharpie to scribble his name and a congratulations note.
“So how did you end up at The Minute? How did you find yourself as a staff critic for Books Today? They do so much for new authors! They’re a big reason why my first novel did so well.
Their pull quote is printed on the cover. ”
“Oh shit!” I lean forward to pen my own congratulations note. “That’s amazing. You gonna tell me what it’s called?”
“Mmm, not yet,” he says behind me.
Curiosity pounds against my chest. “Wow, really giving me nothing here, Reed.” I replace the marker on the easel.
He offers me his elbow again. “I’m not quite ready to be judged based on my novel, by a once-professional book critic.”
I scoff, sliding my arm back through his. “I am not going to judge you. I love books! I took that job because I love shining a light on amazing stories and helping them find an audience. Not shitting on things. You said your book got a great review.”
“Tell me how you got started there.” He tugs me back into a slow stroll.
“I got an internship during college. They took a chance on me as a staff critic for a YA book, liked my review, and things unfolded from there.”
“What book was it, the first review?”
I slit my eyes at him. “I’m not fucking telling until you stop being so dodgy.”